


Christmas in Williamsburg

by merry_amelie



Series: Academic Arcadia [7]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-23
Updated: 2004-03-23
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merry_amelie/pseuds/merry_amelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn and Ian take a warm winter's vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas in Williamsburg

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback: Is treasured at merryamelie@aol.com (or leave a comment).
> 
> Disclaimer: Mr. Lucas owns everything Star Wars. I'm not making any money.
> 
> To Alex, for all of the happiness our friendship has given me.

  
[Mesdea](http://mesdea.tumblr.com/)'s beautiful manip

Quinn Masterson walked into the apartment with two train tickets behind his back. He and Ian Prentice had just reunited after a Christmas spent with their respective families, and Quinn wanted them to have a celebration all their own now.

Ian was at his desk by the window, and rose as soon as he heard the key in the door. He kissed his lover, noticing immediately the one-armed embrace Quinn gave him. "Something for me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Something for us, lad," Quinn said, handing over the ticket holder.

"Amtrak," Ian sighed, a dreamy note in his voice. "Oh, Quinn -- The Colonial!"

"We're going to Williamsburg. I thought you might like to spend the weekend in Virginia."

"I'd just love it. My parents took us over the summer. I've never been there during the holiday season."

"Me neither. I've booked us a room at the Williamsburg Inn."

That information earned Quinn another kiss. "That's _the_ place to stay. We were at one of the highway motels miles from the historic district."

Quinn ran a cheek through Ian's hair. "Well, now we'll be center stage."

The next day, they boarded the train at Penn Station with an acute sense of deja vu. Quinn had paid extra for Business Class again, and watched as Ian settled in place near the window. Ian had even put his newspaper on the seat next to him.

"May I?" Quinn asked, embarrassed as a shiver coursed through him.

"Yes, of course," Ian answered playfully, clearing the paper away.

Once seated, Quinn said in a low voice, "This trip is a bit longer than the Massachusetts run, about six hours. Think we can get to know each other even better this time?"

Ian brushed Quinn's fingers discreetly. "I'm sure we can."

For all their teasing, this train ride was totally different than their first. Even with an armrest between them, they seemed to fill in each other's spaces. Their elbows shared the rest, legs spread out in front of them, thigh to thigh. Luckily for them, their proximity was indistinguishable at casual glance from that of travellers crowded together between lunch and luggage.

Quinn and Ian allowed themselves an occasional touch, under the pretext of changing positions, but other than that behaved quite respectably.

This time, they'd brought their own sandwiches for a healthier meal. The men headed over to the club car so they could eat at a table; they sat across from each other and enjoyed the views, especially the interior, while they ate.

After lunch, Ian brought out the travel Scrabble, and they commenced a fiercely fought linguistic duel. Both of them came up with seven letter words in the course of the game, as was their wont.

Quinn grinned triumphantly as he put down 'fresher', the final 'r' forming 'bather' with the intersecting word 'bathe'. He gleefully added up his score: eighty-two with the fifty point bonus. "I'm ahead by a hundred points now," Quinn crowed.

"Not for long," Ian answered gamely. Quinn's move had given him access to a triple word square, and he took full advantage of this by putting down 'saber' for a score of thirty-two. Respectable, but not good enough to catch Quinn, and Ian grew increasingly frustrated as his word 'council' languished on the rack.

The bonus points had put Quinn in the lead, and he was able to hang on to win a few turns later. Ian already looked forward to their next game on the way back.

The two returned to their seats with only about an hour left to the ride. Speaking quietly as they got out their notes, the men started to discuss their first joint paper on Melville and Hawthorne. Quinn had researched the former, Ian the latter.

"The thing that most intrigues me about them is the cross-pollination, their influence upon each other's work." Quinn had leaned so close to Ian that their hair was brushing.

Eyes dancing, Ian said softly, "Cross-pollination, eh? They're not the only ones."

Quinn's face grew steadily redder, and Ian was unsure of what embarrassed him more: the innuendo or the comparison to two great authors.

Quinn cleared his throat as he moved fractionally away from Ian; he needed all his wits about him for this conversation. "Since Melville was fifteen years younger than Hawthorne, their relationship began on a master/apprentice note."

"But by the time Melville completed Moby-Dick, we can safely say the 'apprenticeship' was over. Hawthorne instantly recognized it as a masterwork."

Quinn grinned. "A case of the student surpassing his master?"

"Exactly." Ian flashed a cocky grin all his own.

"A bit competitive, are we? But I was never your professor."

"That's true," Ian admitted, "but you could have been." A wistful tone had crept into his voice. "Bant was lucky enough to have you in college. I'd have liked to meet you in grad school. Bant says your lectures should be published, and I would have been there in person to hear them."

Quinn was silent for a while, considering Ian's words. Unbidden, images danced across his mind's eye: of Ian as the attentive learner, of himself as the devoted teacher. Something clicked within Quinn, as if it had all really happened.

His history with Ian, short though it was so far, seemed to have hidden roots. Quinn had read about lovers sighing that they'd known each other forever, but he felt it viscerally. Over the months, Ian and Quinn had told one another as much as they could about their past; was he the only one to take it a step further and imagine that he'd experienced it all firsthand?

Sometimes Quinn had dreams, bright and elusive, which he'd try to snatch into reality when he'd awakened. But he never succeeded in remembering them, beyond a vaguely futuristic atmosphere, and that he and Ian were together.

Ian had fallen asleep by his side, so Quinn spent the remainder of the trip pondering the deep roots Ian had put down inside him.

* * *

They pulled into the Williamsburg train station at three o'clock that afternoon. A few yards from the track was the cheapest of the hotels in the historic district, but it wasn't worth staying there for the convenience.

Quinn and Ian set their sights on the Williamsburg Inn, a half mile away, and began to stride toward it. Carrying only one duffel apiece, it was an easy walk for them to Francis Street. The temperature was in the 50s, the late afternoon sun pleasant on their faces. The men smelled woodsmoke on the air, mingled with the scent of the box hedges they passed.

Everything looked just as Ian and Quinn remembered, save the addition of holiday ornaments hung on the street corners and shop windows. They were made of wood and evergreen; nothing shiny or modern intruded here.

The men saw the hotel long before they got there: a graceful Regency-style structure, all white columns and elegance. They entered through the central archway under the flags, both of them thinking of U.N. flags riding the breeze on Ian's field trip.

They literally stepped into the 18th century, more so than they had thus far. The exteriors of Williamsburg houses were not that different from their modern counterparts, built with wooden planks and shutters. But the interiors were where history revealed itself. Wing chairs, rugs rather than carpet, high wainscotting: in short, an English drawing room atmosphere.

They checked into a lovely second floor room facing the gardens, also an authentic botanical replica of what was grown in colonial times. The room was done in Queen Anne cherrywood, highly polished, with enough dust traps to send a chambermaid scurrying for the day. Its appointments included an oversized, overstuffed bed, which the men eyed with immediate approval, an expensively upholstered sofa and chairs made for sinking into, a desk large enough for the two academics to share comfortably, gilt mirrors, and the perfect finishing touch of fresh flowers from the gardens outside. The crowning glory, though, was a marble fireplace that looked as though it could heat the room without recourse to modern technology.

The bed had a massive canopy from which hung curtains of rich cream brocade. Ian was already thinking of drawing those hangings from the inside. After dinner at one of the taverns, that was exactly what they'd do. Perhaps even before. 

After putting their clothes in a highboy, they ventured into the bathroom and were not disappointed. Happily, the 18th century did stop at the door here. All the modern comforts were available: a marble shower big enough for two with a bench built in, two sinks, and sconces for illumination. The modernity was not jarring because effort had been made to blend in with the colonial decor.

Ian made reservations for the King's Arms tavern at 6 pm. They had two hours before walking over there, and when Ian looked at Quinn stretched out before him on the bed fully dressed like a sumptuous appetizer, they knew from each other's expressions how they'd spend the time. 

Closing the curtains behind him, Ian crawled onto the lace coverlet, and hovered above Quinn teasingly. Quinn pulled him down with a proprietary growl, and captured Ian's mouth with a kiss. The enclosed bed wrapped around them like a cocoon, protecting and separating them from the rest of the world. They could barely see each other, but knew one another's bodies so intimately that sight wasn't necessary. It was warmer in here with the hangings surrounding them in comforting walls of fabric. A new quiet pervaded their cozy haven, the only sounds quickened breathing and the rustle of clothes being thrown aside.

Quinn briefly let go of Ian's hips, while Ian grinned as he saw bolsters and shams sail off the bed and jostle the curtains, to the accompaniment of Quinn's put-upon mutters.

Love thrilled through Ian. Here he was in Williamsburg for the first time with the man he cherished, and it was so much better than family trips when he was a child. Ian had been taken with the novelty of a bedwarmer then; now, he had a bigger and better version.

Quinn snugged his cheek to Ian's and sighed happily. "Now this is how to travel," he said, one hand ruffling Ian's hair. He pulled Ian more fully against him, and the men were lost to the world on a flood of sensation.

They resurfaced in time for a shower that was quicker than they would have liked, and set out for Duke of Gloucester Street. By now it was dark and the lamps were lit, casting the roads in a soft glow so different from the harsh electric light that illuminated the New Jersey highways. They brushed fingers when no passersby were near, and shoulders otherwise.

Ian and Quinn arrived at the tavern five minutes ahead of schedule, but were seated immediately in the heart of the room next to the fireplace. Their darkwood table had grooves in it from years of use, which made it more attractive to them. A single candle in a hurricane lamp adorned the center so that every time they looked at each other it was filtered through candlelight. The flicker of light, the soft crackling of the fire, the lazy cadence of the surrounding conversations: all conspired to keep them comfortably relaxed.

A costumed server brought a basket filled with hot muffins, biscuits, and savory rolls, and quietly took their order from the bill of fare.

Quinn descended on a sweet potato muffin with delight. "I still remember these from fifteen years ago! Haven't been able to find them elsewhere, at least not like this..." He trailed off as he bit into the muffin, a beatific look on his face.

With an endorsement like that, Ian just had to try one too. "You're not kidding," he said, only after he'd devoured the whole thing.

"Where do you want to go first tomorrow, Ian?"

"Let's start with the Governor's Palace. There's always a long line, but first thing in the morning you can get in fairly quickly."

"So we're to ask for a wake-up call on our vacation?" Quinn's countenance went from pleased to peeved so fast that his lips got a workout they weren't expecting so soon after this afternoon's idyll.

Quinn's pitiful expression almost swayed Ian, but the thought of waiting two hours to see the palace was enough to harden his resolve. "You'll thank me when you see the crowds later in the day." In the dimness of the candlelight, Ian patted Quinn's hand on the side of the table next to the fire.

"All right," Quinn said, trying to grumble despite the gleam of delight in his eyes from Ian's discreet caress. Negotiations about the time of the call were clearly in order. "How about 9 am?"

Ian's snorting laugh did nothing to reassure Quinn. "Dream on, lazybones." Ian winked to soften his words. "After two showers and breakfast, we'd be lucky to get there at 10:30. 8 o'clock is the ideal time for the call."

Since Quinn had padded his request shamelessly, they were now in accord. "Fair enough," he said out loud, with just enough of a grin to let Ian know he'd been played. Luckily for Quinn, the first course arrived in time to cut off the acerbic remark poised on Ian's tongue.

Peanut soup, another colonial specialty, sat in front of them. Ian had tried it as a child, and deemed it 'liquid peanut butter', a definite compliment. However, his more sophisticated adult taste buds now found it a bit oily and over-rich.

"Give me a Reese's instead any day," Ian said with a shrug.

Quinn took a spoonful. "At least it's warm. The nights here are chilly at this time of year." The temperature had gone down at least fifteen degrees since they had arrived in town.

Two pairs of eyes drifted to the fire only a few feet away from them. "We've got the best seats in the house," Ian said consideringly. "Let's use our own fireplace tonight."

"I like the way you think, lad." Thoroughly warmed inside and out, Quinn sat basking in the company and the welcoming colonial atmosphere.

A balladeer with a lute strolled to the center of the room, about five yards from their table, and started to play The Lass and the Lamp. His voice was soft yet rich, providing a perfect background for both dining and conversation.

The men drank their hard apple cider, pressed on the premises, and listened to the lyrics. The singer encouraged his audience to drum the beat on their tables.

The performance reminded Ian of his plans for the upcoming semester. "I've decided to include some 18th century poetry in my Intro Lit course this time." 

"The gift shop must have recordings. That's a good way to ease into it," Quinn said, his voice a soft drawl as he relaxed into his chair.

The pumpkin-crusted salmon exceeded their expectations, the flavors complementing each other nicely. Conversation ceased temporarily as they ate and listened to the music.

Quinn reflected on how quickly they had adopted a colonial frame of mind. Surrounded by candles, pewter, gowns, and breeches, the past seemed more real than the present. The laptop he'd brought in his duffel was the anachronism here.

Quinn had always felt a little out of step with his own time, a sense of disconnectedness that had followed him since childhood. Perhaps it was in part due to his literary interests, spanning the centuries with an effortless inclusivity. As an only child, Quinn's focus had determined his reality to a large extent. His curiosity and talent had set him apart as well; a preternaturally mature boy, he was more comfortable in adult company than that of his peers. Quinn harbored no regrets about his past, though; it was not possible, when all he'd been through had brought him to Ian.

Quinn resurfaced from his ponderings to feel Ian's knees pressed up against his own under the table. He heard the refrain, "My own true love and me," and looked into Ian's eyes, brimming with joy in the low light of the single candle. The song flowed over them as they continued eating with secret smiles on their faces.

The meal's finishing touch was a trifle made of cake, vanilla custard, and rum. Quinn was certain Ian had deliberately gotten a bit of custard on the bow of his lip as a taste of things to come, and had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to lick it off. Replete, the men sat back and enjoyed the ambience of the King's Arms.

When they settled the bill, the server told them about the gambols going on at Chowning's Tavern down the street. Quinn and Ian set off for the entertainment.

Chowning's had a completely different atmosphere than the refined King's Arms: it was a bit boisterous at this point in the evening. The patrons looked like they had knocked back a few pints and were ready to play. There were old-fashioned board games on the tables which required instructions, so Ian and Quinn were drawn to the dartboard on the far wall. Both of them had surprisingly good aim, and when they stopped for the night, the tally was 4-3 in Ian's favor.

When they moved out of the lamplight to begin their walk home, Quinn quietly slipped off his jacket and slid it over Ian's shoulders. Ian did not object, knowing that Quinn would simply shrug it off, and settled for placing his hand briefly on the small of Quinn's back.

Ian started a fire of their own as soon as they'd returned to the room. The two changed into their flannel pajamas, and curled up in each other's arms on a sofa by the fireplace.

Nothing was as warm as this, Ian mused, lying here with Quinn wrapped around him, a checkered quilt over them both, basking in the heat thrown off by the flames. Every so often, one of them would kiss the other or nuzzle into him.

"How do you like our holiday so far?" Quinn asked, voice muffled by Ian's neck.

"Nice..." Ian breathed, but it was unclear whether he was talking about their day or Quinn's snuggling.

Quinn chuckled, realizing that this was not the best time for meaningful conversation. He settled back in to kissing those bits of Ian's skin accessible to him. Quinn heard the gentle murmurs of appreciation as he dusted pecks along Ian's brow.

Eventually, Ian raised his face for a deep kiss, flaring banked heat into passion. They made love into the night, transferring to the bed in the wee hours, and sleeping peacefully thereafter.

* * *

Thanks to the bed-curtains blocking the sunlight, Quinn and Ian were able to sleep until the wake-up call. After twenty minutes of sloppy kisses and sloppier caresses, they managed to convince each other to get up.

The two showered relatively quickly, despite some delicious groping in the guise of cleaning, and were dressed and out the door forty-five minutes after waking. They decided to grab ginger cookies on the way to the palace in lieu of breakfast, and strode past the strollers to get there bright and early.

The Governor's Palace was an imposing Georgian brick structure, with two adjacent wings flanking it. Quinn and Ian grinned at each other as their docent introduced herself and started her lecture; she had the same ease at entertaining a group of people that their own profession demanded. She designated an elderly gentleman to present a petition to the Governor, a conceit that Ian and Quinn had enjoyed on their previous visits, and they all set off on the tour.

The intentionally daunting display of muskets on the entranceway ceiling was as highly polished and impressive as they remembered. The dark wood gleamed as brightly as the metal it surrounded.

The rooms of the palace were open and airy with high ceilings, the windows reaching to within a few feet of them. Intricate fretwork was everywhere: lintel, wainscotting, cornice. Quinn mused that one didn't see this level of detail in modern construction, even for the rich.

The first floor rooms were formal affairs, designed to impress heads of state. The furnishings were roped off, to protect them from the wear and tear of hordes of visitors.

Ian noticed the unfamiliar arrangement of silverware in the main dining room: fork and knife flanked each delicate china plate on a bed of cream damask, but the spoon was placed above the plate. The long sweep of table was set for a banquet's dessert course, as if the guests had just left briefly to dance in the ballroom. A fanciful collection of sugared jellies brought color to the table.

The ballroom was the modern-day tourists' next stop as well. The blue-painted room was, if possible, more ornate than what they'd seen so far. Enormous Neoclassical paintings graced the walls, imposing marble fireplaces caught Quinn's eye, and made him think of the Ian-Quinn-sized one in their room, which he quite preferred.

A figured harpsichord had Ian itching to try it; he'd played the piano since the age of ten, and wanted to hear the different harmonics for himself. He looked up to chandeliers boasting a few hundred pieces of glass, and imagined the music swelling to the ceiling.

The grand staircase, all carved dark wood, took them up to the bedrooms on the second floor. Quinn and Ian stayed near the head of the group to hear the guide's history lesson and to listen to her answer questions.

The bedrooms were done in the same grand style as the receiving rooms downstairs. The docent informed the group that the rugs merely surrounded the beds, and did not extend underneath them, an example of colonial ingenuity comparable to using leaf tables as space-savers.

Quinn's thoughts drifted to Ian's consideration for his big frame at home. The teak coffee table by the couch in the apartment had a drop-leaf design; when Quinn had first visited, both leaves were up and the surface was covered by papers. Quinn couldn't remember the last time the leaves had been used, though. This kindness had given Quinn's long legs about a foot of extra space in which to stretch.

Quinn snapped to attention when they entered the Governor's bedroom. Both he and Ian noted that the cream hangings on their four-poster at the Inn were apparently inspired by the bed in this room. The differentials were thousands of dollars and historical accuracy. Every item found here was a museum-quality piece: rugs, candelabras, desks, and chairs. In fact, all of Williamsburg formed one huge museum in itself. 

Quinn ducked his head automatically when the docent looked at him and said, "Sir, you would have been quite uncomfortable in an 18th century bed. Look at the length of it; it's much shorter than the beds of today." The group had transferred their attention to the bed by now, instead of Quinn, with the exception of Ian, who was smiling wickedly at him. The guide continued, "It was common for people to sleep sitting up in colonial times, with their backs against the headboard. Average heights were less in those days too, in part due to poor nutrition."

When they had covered the sections of the palace open to guests, Ian and Quinn wandered out into the gardens in back. Dazzled from the tour, they'd grown used to low light, and had to adjust to the sunny day. Topiaries, flowers, and outbuildings greeted their gaze.

Eyes dancing, Ian led Quinn to the maze; he had fond memories of getting lost in there as a child, and enjoying every minute of it. As soon as they were behind the first hedge, Quinn grabbed Ian to him for a hard, quick kiss.

"Mmmmm. Feels as if I've been waiting forever to do that, lad," he breathed into Ian's ear.

Grateful for Quinn's acute hearing, as well as his impulse, Ian relaxed into Quinn's embrace. They were surrounded by walls of greenery, the sharp scent of evergreen permeating the air, a carpet of green at their feet. The maze muffled the noise of the other visitors as they explored the yard, and gave them the illusion of being in a world all their own, much as their enclosed bed had earlier. 

Ian pulled Quinn's head down for a kiss of his own, taking full advantage of their first private moments since leaving the room that morning. They stayed in each other's arms for a few minutes, resting against one another and kissing occasionally.

Quinn said, "I can't believe the docent singled me out because of my height back there. It was embarrassing. The only one I want to discuss beds with is you." 

Ian patted his shoulder. "She didn't mean to upset you; you just served as a handy illustration of her point." Quinn snorted. "I certainly got a lot out of it," Ian added mischievously. 

Quinn cocked his head when he heard people entering the maze, then walked forward with Ian, setting a pace that those behind were too slow to match. After a few attempts, they found the center, and were rewarded by seeing the flash of a sundial in a little clearing.

The men relaxed on a bench for a while, Ian tucked under Quinn's arm. They had the place to themselves since no one else had discovered the center. 

"All this opulence makes me glad to live in our little apartment, lad." Quinn's hand caressed Ian's denim-clad thigh. 

Ian chuckled. "I can imagine. I'm the one who exiled your steel shelves to your parents' garage." 

"They did their job, Ian, and not a spot of rust on them." Quinn patted Ian's knee to show he was teasing him.

Of course, that just encouraged Ian to give Quinn a long, quip-quelling kiss. "Well," he drawled, speaking against Quinn's lips, "I can personally guarantee you that we'll never have a rust problem with the teak either."

Quinn snorted, and was about to answer in the same vein, when he was distracted by an enticing aroma drifting towards them from the yard that demanded investigation.

Quinn and Ian ambled back through the maze, this time getting it right on the first try. They saw people lined up at the outbuilding housing the kitchen. The hardships of colonial cooking became clear with a demonstration, in which bread was made from scratch. There were no shortcuts, and it was a full-time job for many people just to put food on the table in the course of a day.

Thankfully, there were prepared meals for hungry tourists to buy. Ian and Quinn chose meat pasties, and washed them down with mulled cider. They ate on a bench surrounded by camellias. 

After their impromptu lunch, the men explored the outbuildings: necessaries, worksheds, and the like. In some, they had enough privacy to steal a kiss or two; in others, they saw tools used in maintaining the grounds.

On the way back to the Inn, Quinn and Ian noticed a horse-drawn carriage festooned with white ribbons and flowers waiting near Bruton Parish Church. They slipped inside to witness the wedding in progress.

The first seven rows were taken up by family and friends; well-wishers sat further back. Ian and Quinn quietly eased into a pew near the doors, and settled in to watch the service. The bride wore a cream gown with a delicate tracery of lace as adornment; the groom managed to carry off his blue morning coat, breeches, and leggings. The bridesmaids were in evergreen and cranberry dresses to celebrate the season.

While the couple plighted their troth, Ian looked over to find Quinn whispering the words of the ceremony, just as Ian himself was doing. Their fingers intertwined, hidden between their thighs, as they shared the happiness of the newlyweds.

Afterwards, the two decided to head back to the Inn for a swim. They played in a warm spring, heated even more by the afternoon sun. They were on their own since the exhibits were still open for the day, and others were daunted by the season. Their competitive spirit roused by the dart games of the previous evening, Ian and Quinn started racing laps. Quinn was the gracious and puzzled loser, not quite believing that his longer arms and legs hadn't given him the edge.

After their swim, Quinn got the fire going, then undressed to join Ian in the shower. There was no hurry this afternoon, so they enjoyed taking advantage of every inch of each other, as well as of the double-sized enclosure. Clean, after several false starts, they relaxed under the covers of their bed, Quinn on his back with Ian pressing into his side.

Quinn ran his fingers through Ian's copper hair, blond streaks visible thanks to time in the sun. "This is just what we needed after a hard semester."

"It's so peaceful here. Last time I came, my mom had us running from place to place, trying to see everything in two days." Ian rubbed Quinn's stomach in small circles.

"Sounds more like work than a proper vacation. I always liked going to the beach or camping instead of frenetic museum-hopping." Quinn began a leisurely exploration of Ian's hairline, using fingertips and mouth, movements slowing as he drifted off to sleep with Ian joining him.

A couple of hours later, Ian was woken by the rumbling of Quinn's stomach under his ear. Quinn remained asleep, however, and Ian set himself the delightful task of waking him. Scattered kisses on his ribs earned Ian a purr; knuckles brushing over his chest evoked a grunt: Quinn was stirring all too fast. As Ian licked his chin, Quinn's eyes cracked open and his arms wrapped firmly around Ian.

"This is much better than a wake-up call, lad," Quinn said, kissing Ian softly. His stomach grumbled again. "Guess it's dinnertime for us, eh?" 

A few kisses later, the men got up to dress, then went downstairs to the lobby. Although Quinn and Ian had not been able to be there on Christmas Day, Williamsburg celebrated all twelve days of Christmas. Their eyes were caught by the wassail bowl by the fireplace surrounded by couches for thirsty guests. A fifteen foot high Christmas tree decorated with small velvet bows and wooden ornaments stood proudly nearby. A costumed server smiled broadly at Ian and Quinn, and handed them mugs of hot spiced wine.

They sat sipping the wine by the fireside, gazing contemplatively at the tree. The two roused to attention when a group of fresh-faced children entered the room singing carols popular in previous centuries: Greensleeves, Good King Wenceslas, The Holly and the Ivy.

After the performance, Quinn and Ian strolled over to Christiana Campbell's Tavern. The half-mile walk to Duke of Gloucester Street sharpened their appetite, so they were happy to be seated within ten minutes, despite their lack of reservations.

The two had brown ale that night, which went beautifully with the Welsh rarebit that caught their eye. The dish consisted of melted cheddar cheese blended with beer, and came with toast for dipping.

They lingered over this simple fare, eager to hear the evening's entertainment. A young woman walked around the tavern playing her flute. The bustle of the servers, the hum of chatter surrounding them, the clear thread of the music: all left Ian and Quinn totally content.

"Do you have plans for tomorrow, Quinn?" Ian asked, after a sip of ale. 

"What do you think of looking at the various crafts and workshops?"

"Good idea. When I was here last, we ran out of time to see the smithies, so let's make sure to stop by."

"My favorite was Geddy's Foundry; I liked watching them pour and work the molten metal, then turn it into the most useful and beautiful objects." Quinn left unspoken his desire to visit the Golden Ball afterwards to get matching rings. These would have to be worn on chains tucked under their shirts until they decided to tell their families about their relationship.

"That does sound interesting; we'll go there first."

On their walk home, Ian and Quinn were treated to a fireworks display on the green. Red, white, blue, and green sparklers lit up the sky in holiday celebration.

They returned to their room, and Quinn started a merry blaze going, smiling as he saw Ian rooting through his duffel bag. He brought out his own gift for Ian, and pulled him down to the sofa for a kiss as he pressed it into his hands.

The two opened their presents simultaneously, caught up in the boyish glee of their first Christmas together. A leather-banded Aldera watch for Quinn and a top-of-the-line shaver for Ian, so advanced it was all but sentient.

Quinn saw the inscription 'Love always, your Ian' on the casing, and hugged Ian to him for a long moment. Ian then clasped the brown strap around Quinn's wrist, taking the opportunity to nuzzle his hand while it was close to him. 

Quinn stretched out his arm in the firelight. "It's a fine treat. Thanks, love."

Ian began investigating the seemingly boundless capabilities of his new shaver, and looked up at Quinn with a raised eyebrow. "So you like me clean-shaven, do you?" he asked teasingly. 

Quinn ran his fingers over Ian's cheeks and chin. "I love this late-day stubble, I'd enjoy whiskers on you, and I'll like your baby-smooth cheeks after a shave. You always look good to me."

Ian's eyes shone. "How about giving me the first shave?"

Quinn's arms wrapped around Ian as they stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He glided the shaver over the curves of Ian's face carefully, lingering on the dimple.

Finally, Ian reached up to turn it off and said, "You should do this for me every morning."

"I'd like to, but then we'd never get to work on time."

The two of them were still chuckling as they washed up for the night.

Later in bed, nestled in each other's arms, Quinn shyly broached the subject of the wedding they'd seen. 

"I felt so close to you in church today, lad. I-I wondered if you'd consider wearing my ring on a chain."

Ian could feel the rush of heat to Quinn's face as he lay on Ian's chest. Cupping his face to lock eyes with him, Ian said, "Oh, yes! And you'll wear mine?" At Quinn's nod, Ian bent to kiss him and was swept up in Quinn's fervent embrace.

* * *

The next day, after a quick breakfast at the Inn, Quinn and Ian headed out to look at the craft shops. Their understanding grew with each facet of colonial life they viewed: gazettes and pamphlets at the printer's, hammered and cast metal at the foundry, hand-sewn shoes at the cobbler's. 

They decided to invest in two pairs of high, buckled boots, perfect for hiking the frequently muddy trails near their home. Since custom craftsmanship took time, the boots would be sent to them by parcel post.

The fanciful feathered hats and powdered periwigs at the milliner's left Ian and Quinn grateful that tastes had changed in the intervening centuries. 

A reproduction of a peruke with a fall of long chestnut hair dusted in white powder caught Ian's eye and he picked it up, turning it in his hands. "Quinn, will you try this on for me? I think it suits you."

Obligingly, Quinn donned the wig, barely suppressing a laugh, and faced Ian. The sight raised gooseflesh on Ian's arms, and after checking to see that they were unobserved, Quinn ran his big hands up and down them until the bumps had subsided.

Looking into the mirror, Quinn had to fight off a shiver of his own. For some reason, the long hair did seem to suit him, and even felt familiar. Quinn had never had hair longer than his collar, yet the sense of rightness was unmistakable. He took the peruke off before turning towards Ian again. 

Ian said wonderingly, "It looked like it belonged on you."

"I know, lad." Quinn could not continue because the metaphysics of the situation were too convoluted. The wig was available for sale, but he chose not to buy it, nor did Ian press him. They did not discuss it further by unspoken accord, realizing that what had happened was beyond their ken.

The cool air cleared their heads as they walked to the Golden Ball to purchase rings. Plain gold bands of medium width caught their eye, and they were able to watch while they were engraved with an entwined Q and I. Ian chose diamond-cut rope chains on which to hang them.

When they went outside, Quinn led Ian to one of the many quiet little gardens that dotted the area. It was surrounded by hedges, and accessible only by a white wooden gate set inconspicuously amidst the greenery. After Quinn closed the latch, the garden became their own little piece of the world. It had a contemplative feel, as if generations had used it to gather their thoughts.

Wordlessly, the two took the rings and chains out of their boxes and assembled them. Impulsively kneeling in the soft grass, they slipped them over each other's heads, a fine tremor in their fingers.

"I'll love you forever," Ian whispered.

"I'm yours" was Quinn's simple reply.

Their foreheads pressed together for a long moment, then they kissed even longer.

Finally, Ian dared to say it, "I feel married."

A hush came over them at the power of that word. These two men, the least political of creatures, had felt the primal sense of connection that underpinned marriage vows everywhere.

"As do I, lad. As do I." An excruciating mixture of happiness and trepidation resonated in Quinn's voice.

They sat in the garden for a few minutes, collecting themselves before re-entering the wider world. Hands clasped, Ian and Quinn leaned on each other and gradually felt their tension lessen. As the men left the garden, they made sure that the rings were hidden, their bittersweet emotions reflected in their eyes.

The two opted for lunch next, a good opportunity for further decompression. They chose Shields Tavern this time, and lingered more than an hour over veal madeira and bread pudding. The men talked much less than usual, reflecting on the magnitude of what they'd just done.

Every so often, Quinn and Ian would catch a flash of gold when they looked at each other, which never failed to make them smile. Their vacation was beginning to look more like a honeymoon.

After lunch, they tried to get back into the rhythm of sightseeing, and set off for the apothecary shop. The men watched intently as a costumed expert made 'pills' by grinding herbs to powder with a mortar and pestle, then cutting them in a press. Tonics appeared even more exotic: strangely colored admixtures of unfamiliar liquids stored in cloudy glass bottles.

When they came out onto Duke of Gloucester Street, the two heard music and looked to their left: a fife and drums corps was marching down the street towards them. They played carols popular in the 18th century, including Ian and Quinn's favorite: God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. The men had never heard a version quite like that.

The corps passed by, and they were off on a bracing walk to the cooper's for a barrel-making demonstration. Each iron-banded barrel had to be watertight; practicality was important, since they were used by the taverns in the historic district.

When Quinn and Ian had gambolled at Chowning's Tavern, the barkeep, upon seeing the breadth of Quinn's arms, had asked if he wanted the honor of tapping a hogshead of ale. Quinn had politely declined, thinking that it was best left to the experts, but now he could see why he'd been asked: the men who worked here, as in the smithies, were all well-muscled and fit.

Ian and Quinn walked towards the windmill nearby, thinking it added a romantic touch to the landscape. The mill also turned out to be practical, providing the grain used for animal feed by farms in the area.

The two went straight to their room upon returning to the Inn. As soon as the door had closed, they were in each other's arms, their names on one another's lips between kisses. Ian took off Quinn's ring and watched mesmerized as Quinn pressed both bands together. Ian's ring nested inside of Quinn's, thanks to the latter's broad fingers.

"Let me cradle you within the circle of my arms tonight, just like this," Quinn whispered, closing their hands over the concentric bands.

Their honeymoon had begun in earnest.

A couple of hours later, Quinn roused from a sated doze with the most marvelous smile on his face, and an armful of tousled Ian.

"This vacation just gets better and better, lad," Quinn said, his voice still a bit hoarse from their previous activities.

Ian kissed Quinn's ear and spoke into it. "You're amazing, you know that?"

Quinn's gentle laugh was self-deprecating. "Look who's talking." He tenderly curled a lock of Ian's hair around his forefinger.

They drifted off to sleep again, until Ian cracked open an eye long enough to look at the clock and realize that they still had time for high tea in the Terrace Room downstairs. The men had a quick wash and dressed in jacket and tie.

The key word is miniature to describe a traditional English tea, and that's exactly what awaited them: an assortment of tiny cakes, tarts, and sandwiches, each more delicious than the last. 

Ian sat back to enjoy watching Quinn eat, the little treats all but vanishing in his big hands. Their waiter had taken one look at him, and set off for more pastries.

Ian laughed merrily. "Now how did he know you'd want more?"

Quinn winked, a mischievous grin lighting his face. "I always want more, lad."

"And you'll always get it," Ian promised softly, eyes gleaming.

Quinn had green tea, Ian the pekoe, neither man using milk, lemon or sugar. They sipped it slowly, and savored the lilliputian meal in front of them.

Ian sighed. "It's our last day here. Wish our workdays went this fast."

Quinn smiled at him, incapable of being truly unhappy after the momentous events of the morning. "It's been a wonderful vacation, but I don't mind returning to a new semester with you."

"Nor do I," Ian admitted grudgingly, a tiny pout enhancing his already delectable lips. 

Since they'd eaten quite a bit, the two decided to skip dinner and returned to their room. As they settled in for the night, Quinn and Ian both realized that Williamsburg was a historic site for them personally now, the scene of their own private vows.

They'd met thanks to Tolkien; they might have known that there would be rings in their future together.


End file.
